When the grandmother learned that her grandson wanted to kick her out, she sold the flat without looking back.
Why take out a loan when you can wait for Grandma to pass away and inherit her house? That was the plan of my husbands cousin, Théo. His wife, Élodie, and their three children lived in anticipation of that inheritance. They shunned credit, preferring to dream of the day Grandmas apartment would belong to them. In the meantime they cramped themselves in Élodies mothers tiny tworoom apartment in Nice on the Côte dAzur, a life that seemed to suffocate them. Théo and Élodie whispered more and more often about how to settle the situation with Grandma.
But Grandma, Édith, was a true gem. At seventyfive she overflowed with energy, lived intensely and was in perfect health. Her flat in the heart of Nice was always open to friends. She mastered her smartphone, visited exhibitions, attended theatre performances and even allowed herself a few flirtations at senior dance nights. She radiated vitality, a daily example of joy. For Théo and Élodie, however, she was an irritant. Their patience finally snapped.
They decided that Édith should hand over the flat to Théo and move into a retirement home. They made no secret of it, claiming that Grandma would be better off there. Édith was not the type to be pushed aside. She flatly refused, and that rejection ignited the powder keg. Théo erupted in a furious tirade, shouting that she was selfish and should think of her childrens future. Élodie fanned the flames, insinuating that Grandma had lived enough.
My husband and I were horrified and learned the whole story. Édith had always dreamed of visiting Indiato see the Taj Mahal, breathe the spices, wander the streets of Delhi. We offered her to live with us and rent out her flat to fund the trip. She accepted, and soon her spacious threeroom city centre flat generated a tidy income. When Théo and Élodie heard this, they caused a massive scandal. They believed the flat belonged to them by right and demanded that Grandma move into it. They even accused my husband, Serge, of manipulating Édith for the inheritance. Théo even claimed the rental money as his legitimate share. We replied that would never happenplain and simple.
Élodie began visiting us almost daily, sometimes alone, sometimes with the children, sometimes bringing absurd little gifts. She asked after Grandmas health, but we saw the real motive: she and Théo still hoped Édith would fade away soon and leave everything to them. Their greed and audacity stunned us.
Meanwhile, Édith had saved enough money and traveled to India. She returned radiant, suitcase full of stories and photos. We suggested she go further: sell the flat, keep traveling, and later grow old with us in comfort. She thought it over and decided. Her large apartment sold at a good price, and with the proceeds she bought a cozy studio on the outskirts of Nice. The remaining funds financed new adventures.
Édith toured Spain, Austria and Switzerland. On a trip to Lake Geneva she met a Frenchman named Jean. Their romance was cinematic: at seventyfive she married him! Serge and I flew to France for the ceremony, and it was magicalwatching her glow in a white dress, surrounded by flowers and smiles. Édith deserved that happiness. She had worked all her life, raised children, helped grandchildren finally, she lived for herself.
When Théo learned of the flats sale, he flew into a black rage. He demanded that Grandma hand over the studio, claiming she had enough. How he intended to house five people there remained a mystery. But it no longer concerned us. We were happy that Édith had found her bliss. As for Théo and Élodie their story shows that sometimes money reveals the true face of those close to you.
